Queen Witch...Or...You know
The winds of Ragoon VI struck colder than she remembered. It wasn't the chill of danger—it was thinner, more distant, like the final exhale of a world that had seen too much war and tried to forget it.
Zori stepped off the transport platform with a slow, deliberate pace, the steel ramp groaning beneath her boots. She kept her chin tucked, shoulders relaxed, and spine straight—not out of pride but necessity. No one here knew the name "Zori Galea." And if they did… they wouldn't find her. That name was buried now, scattered like ash across the stars she had once tried to conquer.
Here, on Ragoon VI, she was Loren Sacher.
Her black dress clung like memory, understated in its silhouette, modest in its design—yet no amount of fabric could truly shield her from the vulnerability of her freedom. Her once-prized armor had not been forged of beskar or phrik, but identity. Now she had none. She wasn't hunted, exactly. Not anymore. But she had nowhere to return to either. She was unanchored. Naked.
The spaceport was quiet—frigid air coiling in from the mountains, snow dusting the worn stone of the landing area, and refugees and travelers making quiet transactions in corners. Droids carried crates, and a few wary children darted between shadows. No stormtroopers. No bounty hunters. Just silence and motion.
And then she saw them.
A cluster of figures in cream and rust-colored robes waited at the far end of the port. Their sashes bore the spiral insignia of the Sisters of Peace, an obscure traveling order that had dedicated itself to tending broken worlds and broken people. They were healers, midwives, scholars. Listeners. Not warriors.
The eldest among them stepped forward, her hood drawn low, but her voice was clear and warm.
"Loren Sacher?" she asked, not demanding—offering.
Zori nodded once. "Yes."
The woman smiled gently, her eyes narrowing with sincerity. "Welcome to Ragoon. You're safe here."
It was a small thing, those few words. But they hit harder than any accusation. Safe. She had not heard the word in years without preparing for betrayal.
Another Sister stepped forward and offered her gloved hand, calloused and worn from decades of care. "If it suits you, we walk to the monastery by foot. It's not far. Time to think. Or not think."
Zori accepted the hand, though the contact made her flinch just slightly. She hadn't been touched in kindness in far too long.
As they moved down the worn path leading toward the snowy hills of Ragoon's western steppes, she felt the cold begin to thaw her mind in strange ways. Her connection to Azis had been severed—burned in the ritual that bartered her chains for a different kind of uncertainty. The dark sorcery she had once clung to like a crown felt more and more like a cage she had willingly decorated. It had never given her peace. Only control. Only pain.
Perhaps she had been wrong. About the galaxy. About others. About herself.
She let her gaze lift toward the pale sun breaking through the clouds. The Sisters walked with quiet grace beside her, not pressing her for answers, not demanding her history. And in that silence, a thought arose—not in defiance, but in discovery:
"What if redemption wasn't something you earned? What if it was something you allowed yourself to begin?"
She didn't know yet. But maybe Ragoon VI would give her space to ask.
For the first time in a long time, Zori—Loren—walked without needing to look over her shoulder.
And the galaxy felt wide again.
Zori stepped off the transport platform with a slow, deliberate pace, the steel ramp groaning beneath her boots. She kept her chin tucked, shoulders relaxed, and spine straight—not out of pride but necessity. No one here knew the name "Zori Galea." And if they did… they wouldn't find her. That name was buried now, scattered like ash across the stars she had once tried to conquer.
Here, on Ragoon VI, she was Loren Sacher.
Her black dress clung like memory, understated in its silhouette, modest in its design—yet no amount of fabric could truly shield her from the vulnerability of her freedom. Her once-prized armor had not been forged of beskar or phrik, but identity. Now she had none. She wasn't hunted, exactly. Not anymore. But she had nowhere to return to either. She was unanchored. Naked.
The spaceport was quiet—frigid air coiling in from the mountains, snow dusting the worn stone of the landing area, and refugees and travelers making quiet transactions in corners. Droids carried crates, and a few wary children darted between shadows. No stormtroopers. No bounty hunters. Just silence and motion.
And then she saw them.
A cluster of figures in cream and rust-colored robes waited at the far end of the port. Their sashes bore the spiral insignia of the Sisters of Peace, an obscure traveling order that had dedicated itself to tending broken worlds and broken people. They were healers, midwives, scholars. Listeners. Not warriors.
The eldest among them stepped forward, her hood drawn low, but her voice was clear and warm.
"Loren Sacher?" she asked, not demanding—offering.
Zori nodded once. "Yes."
The woman smiled gently, her eyes narrowing with sincerity. "Welcome to Ragoon. You're safe here."
It was a small thing, those few words. But they hit harder than any accusation. Safe. She had not heard the word in years without preparing for betrayal.
Another Sister stepped forward and offered her gloved hand, calloused and worn from decades of care. "If it suits you, we walk to the monastery by foot. It's not far. Time to think. Or not think."
Zori accepted the hand, though the contact made her flinch just slightly. She hadn't been touched in kindness in far too long.
As they moved down the worn path leading toward the snowy hills of Ragoon's western steppes, she felt the cold begin to thaw her mind in strange ways. Her connection to Azis had been severed—burned in the ritual that bartered her chains for a different kind of uncertainty. The dark sorcery she had once clung to like a crown felt more and more like a cage she had willingly decorated. It had never given her peace. Only control. Only pain.
Perhaps she had been wrong. About the galaxy. About others. About herself.
She let her gaze lift toward the pale sun breaking through the clouds. The Sisters walked with quiet grace beside her, not pressing her for answers, not demanding her history. And in that silence, a thought arose—not in defiance, but in discovery:
"What if redemption wasn't something you earned? What if it was something you allowed yourself to begin?"
She didn't know yet. But maybe Ragoon VI would give her space to ask.
For the first time in a long time, Zori—Loren—walked without needing to look over her shoulder.
And the galaxy felt wide again.